Wednesday, 6 October 2010

The Yellow Room is a twice-yearly anthology of new short stories by women writers. It's a subscription-only publication, which is why I'll put the address and website at the bottom of this post.

Joanne Derrick, owner and editor, originally created it's 'mother' : Quality Women's Fiction , which was recommended to me a number of years ago by poet and author, Chrissie Gittens.

She rated it highly as being not only a must-read for readers of quality fiction but also for budding women writers because all contributions are published from scripts submitted by subscibers. I ordered a copy and was hooked from then on.

Tired of reading the mainly slush published in national magazines such as Woman's Weekly (although you can find the occasional interesting story from time to time so I'm not totally bad-mouthing such magazines), it was refreshing to discover a venue for stories that tackled far more varied stories, with much richer writing.

In fact, I quickly came to realise that I would have to 'up my game' if I wanted to be published here. I had to really develop the quality and originality of my prose style. It was just what I needed.

I submitted several stories for consideration and finally Joanne liked the look of one of them - September In Italy - but I needed to make it far more descriptive if it was to stand any chance of being published.

Thankfully, the revised version was accepted and seeing my work in print was wonderful for me. It was a confirmation that I could actually write decent stuff if I really tried...and then tried even harder.

So, when Joanne decided to sell the magazine to an American writer, I was very disappointed, particularly when I received the first copy under the new ownership and found it veering towards raunchy writing, whch is not what I want to read.

However, Joanne then set up The Yellow Room, which is similiar to her original publication: A5 size with a creative glossy cover, photographed by her husband, David Derrick, and a range of short stories, book reviews, reader's letters and competition news.

So, of course, I subscribed, and having received and read two editions, my verdict is that the stories are as good as, if not better, than QWF. And again, The Yellow Room unashamedly focuses on women writers, who often struggle to get published in such a male-dominated business.

A few months ago, I submitted my latest short story - Breaking and Entering. I had originally written it with incorrectly spelt words and no punctuation to reflect my main character's lack of education. Believe you me, this took an age. Joanne liked the story (yippee!) but wanted the spellings and punctuation to be accurate (bummer!) so I then spent an age re-writing it. This version was accepted (yippee again!) and I'm looking forward to seeing it in print.

Ha ha, you might say. I'm reviewing The Yellow Room because of this but, hand on heart, I can say that that is not the case. I had decided to review it before I received this good news.

So, the edition I'm about to review is Edition Four and I intend to select one of the stories in some detail and include quotes to highlight the quality and freshness of the writing. So, here goes:

* Come The Revolution by Kerry Ashwin

This story takes place during a local bus journey and is told from the perspective of an anonomous fellow passenger.

The main protagonist is a fiesty, out-spoken old lady called Mrs Eden.

You get an idea of her personality immediately in the first sentence, as she launches into conversation with the young woman she is with (a neice perhaps, the onlooker speculates):

'If there's one piece of advice I can give you it is to never say no.'

And the description of her hat re-enforces her character:

'The woman's hat, sporting a wide brim and pearl hat pin that would deter the most determined purse snatcher, bobbed about as the bus ground its way into gear.'

This conjures up an image of the Queen Mother with attitude or a modern-day Lady Bracknell from Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest.

The young companion explains that she thinks she could change her boyfriend's 'silent.. indiffere(nce)'

but Mrs Eden will have none of it:

'To change a young man is the feverent hope (of women ranging from Cleopatra to Queen Victoria to Hillary Clinton), but a futile exercise. I understand that you can see great promise in your Jonathon, great possibilities and the chance to mould the man, but be warned, this only leads to frustration at the raw materials and its inflexibility.'

And, as Mrs Eden elabotates on the qualities of women ('We are practical and useful but more than this we are supple, beautiful, and as the wind whispers its secrets, we hold them close'), the rest of the passengers are enthralled.

The story is not over-loaded with detailed descriptions of the other passengers but special attention is given to two new passengers: 'The bus crunched to a halt and scooped up two old women with tartan shopping trolleys.'

I can just imagine them as their 'small feet swung in time to the gear changes.'

They are intent on enjoying this journey: 'The tartan sisters produced black and white humbugs and offered them to those sitting closest. I sensed that the lollies forged a bond between us.'

And indeed, throughout the story, we see a growing solidarity between the passengers which is necessary for the climax of the story.

For Mrs Eden commits the most cardinel of sins; she lights up a cigarette:

'This old woman, who seemed to have a firm handle on life and its vagaries, produced a little silver flip case. We watched spellbound as she fliced open the lid with a practised air and after choosing one of many, fixed a slender cigarette into an ebony holder. Then a second rummage came up with the lighter. Fashioned as a little gene lamp, with one small stroke the flint was seduced to spark and to her astonished audience, she sucked deeply drawing the flame to the cigarette end.'

She even has 'a little siver pot decorated with swirls and ending with a small filigree tassel' to flick her ash into.

And the reason for this blatant defiance of the rules?

'When our civil liberties are being eroded at every turn,' she explains, 'it is up to the individual to take a stand in whatever way we can.'

At first, some of the passengers register their disapproval but the tartan sisters see this as an excuse to join in the rebellion by ignoring the no-eating sign and breaking into a packet of crisps, which they tuck into giggling and swinging their legs.

The driver, though, is enraged: the narrator sees him 'hunting for the rear vision mirror for the source.'

And he obviously knows who the culprit is: '...his steely glare fixed on her (Mrs Eden)almost immediately.'Mrs Eden, however, is unperturbed: 'She saw his look of indication and nodded politely at the back of his head. This it seemed was not an isolated incident.'

The poor man is unable to stop his bus immediately because the road is far too steep and 'any stop would hold the traffic at a riduculously sharp angle, brakes clutching wheels to defy gravity.'So, he demonstrates his fury in the only way he can under the circumstances: '(he) changed down a gear and swung round to give Mrs Eden a withering stare. His jaw slacked as he took in the tartan sisters enjoying an afternoon snack. Life it seemed was unravelling before his very eyes.'

The tartan sisters wither under such a stare ((their)'act of bravery was quickly scrunched up and hidden in a coat pocket')and the rest of the passengers feel 'sheepish and uncomfortable' but Mrs Eden is in full swing in her declarations against the nanny state: 'If...we let the law makers make all the decisions for us, we will forget to make our own. And if we don't make our own, we have no destiny and are no better than sheep.'

When the driver can safely stop, he summons the police to deal with this flagrant breaking of the law. And here we leave the story because I don't want to spoil the ending in case you buy a copy of The Yellow Room.

*Why I loved this story

First and foremost: it made me laugh. I loved the character of Mrs Eden, who reminded me so much of my Auntie Mary, a heavy smoker until she was seventy, when she just stopped cold. She had a real sense of mischief. Although she was a law-respecting citizen, she did like to bend the rules from time to time. She was a true eccentric, a wild chid at heart always and quick to see and comment upon stupidity and unnecessary red tape.

My Aunty Mary loved people and would have been the first to help if she saw some-one in need. Bold and defiant, she knew what was important in life. Sad to say, she is a dying breed.

I, too, am a smoker, and the smoking in public places ban, which I do agree with, is a real pain in the cold weather we're having. Puts having a hot chocolate and cigarette in the garden at my regular, The Black Boy, out of the question at the moment and I do miss it.

But, cigarettes aside, and I'm sure most if not all of you would object to some-one lighting up in a bus, Mrs Eden does have a valid point about the curtailment of civil liberties and the ludictous restrictions which make the using of initiative to help relieve a difficult situation actually illegal. Apparently, we are not allowed to sweep or treat the paths in front of our houses when they are covered with snow. It makes us vulnerable to prosecution if some-one slips. Absolutely barmy.

So, Mrs Eden's message rings a bell with me.

I also loved this story because of the writing style, which brought the whole scenario to life. The descriptions did not detract from the story but enhanced it.

And finally, I was so taken with the description of Mrs Eden's little silver pot for the cigarette ash that I've asked my husband to buy one for me as a late Xmas present. Should come in very handy for when I'm sticking my head out of a hotel window to have a quick fag.

Sunday, 3 October 2010

Mugs, of course (I don't believe I wrote that ! I mean Sugs; still looking very fit, as did all the group despite their advancing years - just goes to show how having fun can keep you youthful.)

FINISHED !!!

I shall write this post when I find the notes I made whilst on holiday in September (in Italy, of course)!!! Perhaps they are with the down-loaded recipe for South African Bobotie, which was featured on Lorraine Kelly's morning show a few days ago, 'cos I can't find that either.

JANUARY 5th - NOTES FOUND !!! (Plus recipe)

Here are some of my photos from the night that I've (i.e. John, husband and technical amanager) posted to Flickr. I must confess that my photos of the groups are not my best - it's very difficult to take good photos whilst being pushed and shoved and 'slightly' tipsy. And I should also mention that the first group to play were the famous Steve Harley and Cockney Rebel and they were pretty darn good. To call them a 'warm-up' group would be an insult. They could have played all evening and we would still have had a good time. Towards the end of their set, Sugs came onto the stage and played with them and you could feel the frienship and admiration that the two groups have for each other.

MADNESS...What can I say? They were always brilliant in their hay day and they're just as good now. Even better, actually, in a live performance.

With their distinctive sound, catchy lyrics and unique 'Madness' dance - sharp and robotic - it is impossible not to feel happy, happy, happy when their music is playing. So, when someone at Mitzi's funeral in April said that Madness were playing at the Glastonbury Abbey Extravaganza in August, the responsive was immediate - loads of us wanted to go.

So, loads of us went and we weren't disappointed. It was the best evening of 2010 for me.

Here are some photos of some of us having our picnic. Please note that it was a beautiful evening, not a rain drop in sight, although it chucked it down for days before and days after. It's always been a lovely evening everytime we've been to the Extravagaza. Co-incidence, good luck or divine will?

Here's the scene:

The Abbey, the 1st Christian church built in the UK and now in ruins, with it's extensive grounds of trees, large grassy area and lake, is positioned slap-bang in the middle of Glastonbury (funky, mystical, hippy Somerset town with the famous Tor close by).

The Extraveganza should not be confused with the enormous Glastonbury Festival, which takes place on acres of farmland several miles from the town earlier in the summer and usually with vasts seas of mud.

The Abbey Extravaganza is big enough for me, thank you very much. The grounds can accomodate thousands of guests and although I don't generally like crowds I always feel totally at home and safe.

The Extravaganza takes place each year on the Friday, Saturday and Sunday and offers a variety of musical genres.

We've already seen Van Morrison, Corin Bailey-Ray, the London Philharmonic Orchestra and Nigel Kennedy play there in previous years.

But the crowd for Madness was the largest yet: the place was teeming with Madness look-abouts, people dressed in full evening gear, people dressed in fancy dress, people wearing hardly anything at all (come on Hana and Erica - you know exactly who I mean), and a handful of very sensible people, like me, wearing warm clothing as protection against the cold of a typical summer evening (sunny or not).

The enormous stage is positioned at the bottom of a gentle slope which is jam-packed with people tucking into their picnics (some on rugs on the ground, some with table-clothed tables and chairs)/dancing/queuing for the toilets/crammed in a row after row in front of the stage/running around (usually the children) and 'budding photographers' like me pushing their way to the front (which is no mean feat) to take some photos. (I did try to blag my way into the photographers area right at the front but to no avail.)

Hopefully, my photos will give you a flavour of the Extravaganza and that all too often elusive just plain happy-to-be-alive and happy-to-be-there experience.

John, of course, recorded most of the show and you can see and hear Madness at their best on his daftnotstupid You Tube site . And if you're reading this, my friend Web Sherrif, he got permission from the group to do just that.

Thursday, 1 July 2010

Two years ago, John and I apply for press badges for the Essaouira Festival - John for his videos of live recordings for his daftnotstupid You Tube site and me for my blog. However, we are unsuccessful, so we don't bother last year or this. Strangly, though, and probably on the strength of the quality of John's videos, which receive over 500 hits per day, we are offered badges for this year's festival without even asking. Quite a surprise and very much an honour, if a bit scary.

What these treasured passes allow us to do is to not only gain entrance to the VIP/guests/family enclosure at the front but also to the smaller inner sanctum reserved for photographers right below the stage.

John doing his 'Hollywood Director Thing'

We can also interview some of the artists, which I hope to do but never manage... bad back, excessive day-time heat and all that.

However, bad back or not, I am up there on one of the two plinths taking photographs at either Moulay Hassan or Bab Marrakech for four nights on the trot. Dance a lot, too, in the VIP area. Hence the need for two oesteopath treatments to keep me mobile. But I'm not going to miss an opportunity of a life-time.

Most of the photographs, therefore, on this post, are taken close to the performances and, given that I'm a total amateur with just my little Lumix camera, and I'm really a writer, not a photographer, I'm delighted with them. I hope that they give you some idea of the whole visual effect of Gnaoua and World Music, plus the vitality and quality of the performances.)

I am rubbing shoulders with professional photographers but most of the time I feel really confident in what I am doing. Just occasionally, I feel a bit of a fraud but when two photographers from Cassablanca laugh at my little Lumix, I give as good as I get. And I shall send them some of my photographs just to show that a little Lumix can be pretty damn good.

Three things that I discover:-

I am instinctively looking for 'the shot'

My Lumix does not take the shot immediately when I press the button, but flashes several seconds later, and it is that shot that is taken. But because I've seen a lot of Gnaoua performances, I often know what the dancers/Maalem are going to do next, so I press the button to capture the action about to take place.

I sometimes forget to aim the camera above the front drop of the stage and have to keep reminding myself to aim higher so I just capture the action on the stage. (However, John has just taught me the art of cropping, which is brilliant, so I can mainly get rid of that grey drop.)

This photographer is not me - I think she is a French professional photographer with a particular interest in Daby Toure. There is not much chatting on those plinths - people are just too busy. I do, however, manage to talk to Artak Gevorgyan, the Director of The Armenian Navy Band during a lull - more on that later.

THE OPENING CEREMONY - THURSDAY 24TH JUNE

Come with me into our hotel room at 'Hotel L'Heure Bleu'. It's spacious, with a study area, bed, seating area and en-suite. It's just full of Moroccan colour - the windows and verandah doors have bright, primary coloured segments at the top, which glow from the outside sunshine, and the furnishings are deep burgandy and white. The whole effect is pleasing to the eye and mind and room is welcomingly cool.

It's a new hotel, built into the old city walls and in the riad tradition of floors built around a central, open area. Doormen man the doors. It's spotlessly clean and restful and the staff are highly professional and extremely friendly. In fact, friends now.

I've been lazing about on the roof-top terrace in the afternoon, chatting with Hisham in terrible, stilted French (most Moroccans speak fluent French), but want to see how the opening ceremony is shaping up. It's due to start at 6.30 so there's about an hour or so to go. John is already out, ready to film.

I open the balcony doors. A fresh breeze hits me - it's always windy in Essaouira. The sun is shining brightly, reflecting brilliant whiteness from the Bab Marrakech Square in front of me and the new buildings opposite and to the left. To the right I catch a glimpse of the sea. I can't see the beach from here but I know it will be like a massive, informal area of dozens of impromptu football matches - the Moroccans love football. Le football, in French.

The stage is already set up, ready for the performances which start here tomorrow. The vast square facing it is not empty, though. There, in front of me, is a huge semi-circle of magnificantly dressed horses with Arab horsemen already mounted. These are the Fantasia Allems - five groups altogether, led by Abdellah Annouze, Abdelkrim Haddar, Moulay Allal Idrissi, Hadj Ahmed Machtoune and Moustapha Dalam.

The tradition of Fantasia, born in the 15th century, simulates military cavalry attacks thus displaying the skill of the horses and horsemen. In present days, these displays are often used to celebrate special events - like the Essaouira Gnaoua and World Festival.

It might be windy but I know it's hot out there but these horses and horsemen barely move. There might be an occasional nodding of a head or small side-step (the horses, I'm talking about!) but otherwise they are stationary. The discipline is tangible.

And along the road below me, cordoned off, are the brightly dressed Maalems and their Gnaoua groups. They are waiting, too. There is much greeting of friends and press interviews. It's a beautiful scenario.

I grab my valued press badge and make my way outside. I have to weave through the crowds from the hotel entrance and the twenty or so yards to the large gateless gate that marks the exit from the old fortress city to the vast Bab Marrakech Square.

There's a woman sitting just before the gate, with a small boy and a bundle, which I later discover is a beautiful baby sporting a black and white head-scarf. She has been sitting there all day, holding out some tattered documents, and quite clearly begging.

I've passed her so many times without stopping but this time I just can't pass. I sit next to her on the ground and she shows me her baby. John and I have so much in comparison, she so little. We're about to enjoy the festival; she desperately needs money for food and shelter. It's that bitter-sweet aspect to life that I've written about in an earlier Xmas blog.

I dash back into the hotel and the room, scoop up what money we have on the table, dash back down and give her the money. It's only a small gesture - about five pounds or so - but I feel I have to do something. (She's gone when I return and I don't see her again, so hopefully what I gave her will have kept her going for a few days.)

Then I push my way through the crowd for about twenty metres and come to one of the many security checks. This is the first time I've used my badge. I am let through and there I am, among all the performers and press. I take out my little Lumix and start taking photographs. It's magic. Just magic.

These are pigeons which will be released later but I miss this bit plus the cannon shot, which I do at least hear from the room and has me almost jumping out of my skin.

I manage to say hello to Maalem Mahmoud Guinea but I don't think he recognises me at this stage. (We went to his home for a special Xmas Night Lila a few years ago.) He must be thinking :'Who's this mad English woman?!'

(The dancer in the foreground is the spitting image of Michael in 'The Wire' although it can't possibly be him.)

Later on, I go back into the room and onto the balcony and take photographs as the Gnaoua groups start their procession, making music and dancing as they go along. They make their way in a winding spectacle of colour and noise around the edge of the city walls, the horsemen following, to arrive at Moulay Hassan, the large square close to the sea and within the city walls on the other side of Essaouira. I don't follow: I need to prepare for the first performance at Moulay Hassan later in the evening (i.e. have a drink, some cake and a ciggie.)

CONCERT D'OVERTURE AT MOULAY HASSAN

It's nearly eight and still light and very warm. I've taken my usual short cut, using alleys within the city walls, to avoid the crowds. I arrive at the first check-in point near the stage to get me into the VIP area. My badge is scrutinised and I am let through. Then I come to the next check-in, where my badge is digitally swiped. I'm let through there (phew!).

The VIP area is set up with chairs in formal rows for VIPs, friends and families. An official is giving a speech in Arabic in front of a photograph of King Mohammed VI, who helps sponser the festival. I'm new to all this, so I don't ask who he actually is. Great journalist I am! Anyway, I'm eager for the music to start.

After the speech and the introduction from the stage of yet another official I don't get the name of (!), wearing a very distinctive top (the type I might have made in my knitting/sewing days), I attempt to procede into the photographers small enclosure in front of the stage. My badge is checked again for the camera symbol and then, wonder of wonders, I'm through. I'm very impressed with the security. I position myself on one of the plinths with the other photographers, hardly believing that I'm actually there.

I peep through the partially open curtain at the side and spy several male Georgian dancers waiting to go onto the stage. They look so dashingly handsome that I'm thinking: this has to be a dream, surely....a fantastic dream... a best thing in the world dream...a what have I done to deserve this? dream.

The first set starts in a typical Gnaoua flurish...fast playing symbols, ryhthmic druming, the distinctive deep resonations of the gumbris (Gnaoua guitars) and the crisply melodic voices of the Maalems. There are two Maalems (brothers) and their groups: Maalem Mohamed Kouyou and Maalem Said Kouyou. I'm enthralled and start clicking away.

Then they are joined by members of The Sukhishvili Georgian National Ballet. I count five in all but they move so quickly it's hard to tell. And the two sets of dancers -The Georgians and the Gnauoans - challenge each other with their different styles of dancing. It's very exciting, breathtaking stuff as they leap higher than would seem humanly impossible (not evident in these photos so you'll have to take my word for it).

This is far, far better than watching from a balcony. I can see clearly the interaction between the dancers and musicians plus their physical strength and their facial expressions. They are quite clearly loving performing as much as we (the audience - particularly beyond the VIP area) are loving the performance. This is real quality...joyous music and dancing...highly professional and skilled. Eat your heart out Take That.

I had expected the Georgians to be women, dancing in a semi-circle as if their feet are on wheels, but these are some of the men, dressing and dancing like Cossacks (think great Russian novels like Doctor Zhivago and War and Peace.)But the Gnaoui are more than a match for them. In fact, I claim here and now that the Gnaoui are the best dancers in the world. Not only is the Gnaoua dance so complicated and unusual (try as I may, I can only emulate just a few random steps), but they can dance in many other styles when there's a fusion session.

The Armenian Navy Band are due to be part of the act but they aren't there. I am intrigued by such a group and do actually get to see them later and they're not at all what I expected. But very, very good.

Most of the VIPs are sitting rigidly, particularly the military/police chiefs on the front row (I suppose it's not cool for them to show too much enthusiasm) but I can see heads moving in tune with the beat and the beginnings of body movements. The audience behind, though, are going wild.

I can't help it, I start to dance to the music and eventually I'm asked to leave the plinth. Fair enough. I've learnt one of the many lessons I've learnt this year about conducting myself appropriately as a member of the press. For the rest of the festival, I move down into the VIP area if I want to dance.

Step Africa

Not a very good photo, unfortunately, but these are just some of the Step Africa dance team in the VIP area. I meet them quite by chance. I am making my way through the VIP crowd when I spot a man with a Hiati emblem on his sleeve. Me being me, I launch into a 'How are things going in Hiati?' kind of thing because the earthquake was so horrendous. Turns out he is Dan Cassanova from the Step Africa team.

I tell him about the disruption caused by the invasion of Cyprus and we chat about the dance team. They are due to perform with Maalem Mustapha Bakbou at Moulay Hassan on the Saturday evening. John goes over there to record them while I am at Bab Marrakesh.

John and Hisham(from 'Hotel L'Heure Bleu')

Hisham buys us drinks after the first set at the cafe next to the VIP area. We have a much needed rest and it is a delight to share our love of the music with Hisham. To see other photos of Hisham, look at my previous festival posts. He is one of the nicest people I have ever met and very handsome, too. Just wish my French was better.

MAALEM HASSAN BOUSSOU

By now I am pretty wacked, so I don't take many photos (both body and mind in revolt). Maalem Hassan Boussou is a young, powerful Maalem with a voice like clear honey. He's fast becoming John's favourite. See John's daftnotstupid site for John's interview with Hassan. This isn't a fantastic photo but it's the best I took.

I go back to the hotel shortly afterwards and collapse onto the bed. Exhausted but happy.

THE AUDIENCE

Without the audience, the show would mean nothing. I've written about this before but I'll say it again. The audiences at the festival are so enthusiastic, vocal, responsive and obviously delighting in the music that sometimes it's a joy to turn round and photograph them. It's a sign of recognition of their importance. Here are just some of the shots I took:-

FRIDAY - BAB MARRAKECH

For the next two evenings, I cover the performances in Bab Marrakech, whilst John concentrates on those at Moulay Hassan. And I'm going to post my photographs rather than describe in lots of words: Gnaoua is so visual that photographs really do reveal more than the written word. I'll only add comments when I've something special to say. ALL the performances were fantastic so take that as read.

Maalem Abdullah Guinea

I'm pretty sure that this is Mahmoud's brother. There are a number of brothers performing here: just goes to show how the Gnaoua tradition is carried down from father to sons. (Not sure about daughters!)

I am very impressed with this dancer, who seems to be part of several Gnaoua groups. He's got this wonderful ability to dance in a crouching position and often his robe swirls around him, forming a magically coloured material cylinder.

Daby Toure

Daby Toure has a great rapour with the audience: he has us eating out of his hand, directs us as we sing to his music and makes us feel as if we're part of the performance. Certainly a performer to learn more about.

Maalem Mahmoud Guinea

This is the best peformance by Mahmoud that I have ever seen: he's certainly in top form. I'm learning to recognise the differences between Gnaoua Maalems; they each have their own style and sound. Mahmoud displays such authority, totally in charge and directing all his dancers and musicians that I'm quite in awe. This is certainly the best performance of all that I see during the festival.

Hassan, his apprentice, has a leading role - he's learnt his craft well. And to my pleasure, both of Mahmoud's sons are in the group and what talent they already show. They dance with such ease, such fluidity as if the music is flowing through them...and always with serene smiles, obviously loving the experience. I am captivated.

Maalem Mahmoud Guinea and Daby Toure

Instead of adding individual photos to the post, John has created a slide show on Flickr with photographs from this set. He says it makes the page faster to load and the post easier to read. (Just click on the playlist to make it play. Click on the bottom-right icon on the playlist to make it fullscreen.)

FRIDAY EVENING - BAB MARRAKECH

Fatima Tabaamrant

I am sitting on the balcony when Fatima comes on the stage. I am intending to wait a while before tripping down to the press area but as soon as she starts to sing, I am off my chair, grabbing my badge and key and rushing along to the lift. (By now, I am just using the lift to conserve energy - I usually prefer the stairs but there are a lot of them and when you've got important work to do...)

From a distance, she looks like a female matador but up close she is all woman...very glamorous...very attractive...and with a deep voice that projects itself right into the distance. This is what I call a woman with balls but oozing femininity, as do her three dancers.

She courts the photographers, kneeling down and singing to us so we can get a good photograph. I've never seen this before and I appreciate the gesture.

I have no idea what she's singing but I find myself singing quietly to the rhythm. No I idea what I'm singing but it just feels right...exciting...joyful.

Maalem Aziz Bakbou with Daniel Zimmerman and The Armenian Navy Band

John and I only have a few days before the festival to research some of the performers. Daniel Zimmerman is one that I chose. I have learnt from the internet that he is German, speaks English and is a heavy rock musician. I have even requested an interview with him.

But when we read our special press reviews about the festival, John says to me:'It says here that Daniel Zimmerman is French and is a trombone player.'

Apparently, there are two David Zimmermans who are musicians. Bet you didn't know that! Anyway, the one I see now is very good but I have already cancelled the interview. I don't like to interview people if I haven't done my research.

And now for The Armenian Navy Band. I think I can be forgiven for expecting them to be a formal group sporting white naval costumes and playing traditional band music. But, in fact, they are jazz musicians. When I talk to their director, Artak Gevorgyan, I am driven to express empathy because of our countries misfortunes with Turkey. So, yet another person who must be thinking : 'who's this crazy English woman?'

Saturday

Amazigh Kateb

This has been a wonderful evening. I cannot remember enjoying myself as much as this. It has been magical. As well as taking photographs of the artists performing on the stage, I have danced, chatted, laughed, and been befriended by a group of charming young Moroccan children in the VIP area. I am calling them "Les enfants".

Unfortunately, after the set photographed here, I do not realize that my camera has ran out of space. Therefore, though I take lots of photographs of the next sets - Amazigh Kateb, Maalem Abdeslam Alikane, and Amzigh Kateb with Maalem Abdeslam Alikane and Tyour Gnaoua, I have absolutely nothing to show for it. All I can say, is that they were excellent. So much for the budding photographer!

Sunday

Concert de cloture

This is the last evening of gnaoua. There are just two sets to be played. Firstly Iguadar at 5:30, and then Maalem Hamid El Kasri and a number of guests to follow at 6:30. I have an osteopathic appointment that afternoon and am delayed. In fact I am so delayed that I am convinced that the whole performance will have ended. As I make my way along the back streets with a very sore back and holding a cushion to sit on, I mutter to myself because I am sure that I have missed this final concert. There are many people walking away from the area which seems to me an indication that this is so. I can actually feel tears salting my eyes.

However, as I approach the back of the stage, I am delighted to hear that there is still music playing. I have missed Iguadar, but Maalem Hamid El Kasri, on of my favourite gnaoua maalems, is now playing. I rush through security and take my place on one of the plinths. Because this is the last set of the festival there are many photagraphers jostling for a place.

I have given my white cap to one of the children yesterday and so am wearing my white straw hat with a flower in it. This is not a good piece of headware to wear when photographing on a plinth with an eager audience just behind you wanting to watch. Eventually I am shooed to one side by some of the audience and I can't say that I blame them. I shall not make this mistake again.

I sit on the edge of the plinth to catch my breath after all the excitement of the evening, and then I am tapped on the shoulder by an official. "oh dear!", I think, "what have I done now?" However, the official is pointing to our good friend Hisham who has managed to get himself yet again into the VIP area. It is a delight to see him and I take these photographs.

Maalem Hamid El Kasri

By now, my battery is dead so I can't take any more photgraphs. Time to sidle away, squeeze our way through the dancing crowds, and haul ourselves up the steps to our favourite restaurant - Bab Lachour - with the terrace that overlooks the square.

We sink gratefuly onto chairs and listen to the rest of the music from there.

This is the sad part. The sun has now set and we are near the end of the 11th Essaouira Gnaoua and World Festival. We are absolutely shattered and have much work to do when we go home. But ... words cannot express just how glorious this has all been and we hope,insh'alla, to come back next year and to watch some more of this incredible music. You really don't know what you are missing.

Acknowledgements:

Ibtissam Alaoui from The Festival Office, Essaouira, who issued both John and I with press badges. And also for acting as translator for John in his interview with Hassan Boussou.

Docteur Charif Toufelaz,Essaouira -osteopath - for not only keeping me mobile but enabling me to continue to take photographs (and to dance - probably not advisable but I just couldn't help myself!).

The staff at Hotel L'Heure Bleu, Essaouira.

The staff at Villa Des Orangers, Marrakech

John Knutson of daftnotstupid for posting my photographs using flickr.

I usually make at least one purchase every year and this year was no different. After a good chat and discussion of the festival, I came away with a vivid orange beach top - loosely fitting and nicely flattering - and a delightful cotton bag with a bright green, orange, brown, and white floral pattern. It's special feature is brown, beaded webbing at the front and brown wooden handles.

Lou took one look at it and it became hers. She's not to be seen without it, now.

So, thank you Aziza and Khadija. I love coming to your shop and enjoy your excellent service. Insh'alla, I shall see you next year at festival time.

Aziza and Khadija of GIPSY SURFER

Afterthought

My nail beautician, Claire, at New Midas in Winchester, used to be a bouncer at big UK festivals. She tells me of horrific stories about guarding the stage from 'crazy' fans.

Apparently, there are two rows of bouncers at the front. The first row - nearest the crowd - catch 'surfers' who use the crowd to propel their horizontal bodies towards the stage. The second row - in front of the stage - gives the extra protection. But these bouncers have to be changed every 15 minutes because the noise from the amplifiers is so loud that their hearing could be permanently damaged if they stay there too long. Nice job if you can get it. As in NOT!

So pleased, therefore, that the audience at the Essaouira Festival don't need such drastic management. This, I think, is a trbute to the Moroccans.